


but love is the sky and i am for you

by explosivesky



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28776129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/pseuds/explosivesky
Summary: She wants to touch him, to put an arm around him, to hold her palm against his own; but there’s a time and place for everything except during a true war story. It makes him want to say words too big for either of them, like stay and home.
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	but love is the sky and i am for you

There’s no particular reason why he picks this cafe. It’s a block or two from his flat. The weather looks ominous. He doesn’t want to risk it.

(In the years to come, she’ll ask for one, and he’ll make them up: the canopy was red, he’ll say, and it reminded him of an old friend of his. He followed a smell; he’s got a keen nose. He saw her through the window and had to come inside. Just because it was a Saturday.

None of these are true, but they’re nice stories, anyway, and they make her smile.)

It’s a Wednesday. The bell chimes when he walks in. It’s cozy and comfortable, with tables lined against the walls, and an array of bar stools tucked below the counter. There’s only one other man inside, sitting near the back, chatting pleasantly with a woman in a red dress and an apron – he assumes she’s the waitress. He finds a seat near the window and watches as the rain begins to pour, bouncing off the pavement, pattering against the glass.

“Just in time,” a voice says to his left. He starts, skittish, turning to her. She laughs. “Sorry, didn’t mean to surprise you.”

He looks at her. Her hair is twisted into two braids, tying into a knot at the back of her head. Her eyes are some sort of russet colour, like scorched mahogany; her dress carries a pattern of small flowers. She’s tiny, too; he gets the feeling she’d barely reach his shoulder. She reminds him of a forest fire.

“No, you’re fine,” he replies, attempting to remember how to be social. “I’m just a bit jumpy, is all. It’s probably the rain.”

She puts a hand on her hip. “Rain makes you jumpy?” She says dubiously. “You must have a hell of a hard time living here, mate.”

He almost laughs. Feisty. “I’ve been away,” he tells her. “For a long time.”

She seems to forget she’s supposed to be taking his order. He’s intriguing her. He has that effect on people. “Oh?” she says, tilting her head. “Where?”

“Somewhere warm.”

“Vague as that might be,” she says, “it sounds lovely. I haven’t been properly warm since – I don’t know, three summers ago, rare heat wave.”

He _does_ laugh, this time. The sound is foreign to his own ears; free and genuine. It’s not something he’s used to. He doesn’t answer her out of surprise, but she plows on.

“So why’d you come back, then?” She asks, leaning against the table like they’re old friends.

His lips fade into a smile, desolate and small. “It was just time. Time to come home.”

She observes him curiously for a moment, biting her bottom lip thoughtfully. “I suppose,” she says like she understands. And then: “It’s nice that you have an entire city to call home. I wish I’d thought of it like that, then maybe I’d still have one.”

He’s stunned into silence by her openness. People don’t shock him like this often. “Erm, I hadn’t thought of it like that, either – you don’t have a—?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” she interrupts, tapping her finger on the table. “You’re not the only one who’s allowed to be vague.”

He smiles again. He likes the ease at which she gets him to express himself, though he’s only known her for minutes. “Fair enough.”

The bell chimes, and two older men enter the cafe. She glances at them, nodding politely, and subtly winks at him. “What can I get you?” She asks.

“Clara, stop pretending like you’re doing your job,” one of them says, poking fun at her. “We know you’re chatting up the customers.”

She spins around. “Oi, shove off,” she calls, and the men laugh. “Like the reason you two keep coming back here isn’t for my charming personality.”

“Nah, definitely the coffee,” the other says. She rolls her eyes, and turns back to him.

He’s amused. “Coffee. Hazelnut, if you have it. Black is fine.”

She salutes him with two fingers, and moves away toward the other table.

“Listen, Geoff, it’s called _being friendly—_ ” She starts, walking over.

He doesn’t even bother hiding his grin. She _would_ be the type, he thinks, watching her, and it’s not a bad thing. There are people that other people can’t help but be attracted to. Like they have some sort of magnetic field, drawing the rest of them in. Like her. Like she carries her own gravity. He unzips his bag, reaching for his laptop. He’s suddenly inspired.

She returns about five minutes later after making a round, setting his coffee in front of him. He’s typing quickly, fingers flashing across the keys.

“Wow,” she says, impressed. “You’re fast. I barely know my way around my own mobile.”

“Good reflexes, is all,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “I could show you a thing or two, probably, if you needed help.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Down, boy,” she teases flirtatiously. “But I’m _sure_ you could.”

Her implications take a moment to catch up with him. His face burns so badly that he’s afraid it might melt off. “That’s not what I—” he begins, and backtracks, stuttering. “I wasn’t attempting to insinuate that I could – I mean, I didn’t – not that you’re not – I just meant—”

She’s laughing again. “Stop, stop,” she giggles, waving a hand. “I was only joking. You’re quite the gentleman, I see that now.”

“I _am,_ thanks very much,” he says hotly, still embarrassed. She adopts her previous position of leaning against the table, smiling. She has a nice smile. He won’t pretend he doesn’t see it.

“You’re an interesting one,” she replies. She’s fascinated by every curl of his mouth, every inflection in his voice, every crease in his forehead – his laugh sounds rusty, unpracticed. She notices more than she lets on. She wonders about the things that could’ve happened to a person to make them forget their own laugh.

He appears thoughtful. “Am I?”

She scrunches her nose. “Nah. ‘Fun’ is a better word.”

The bell dings again. Four more people pile inside, all greeting her by name.

He grins. “Well, I’m glad I can entertain you. Things certainly are boring around here, aren’t they?”

There’s a glint in her eye. “They were,” she says, “until you showed up.”

She stands up straight, cracking her back. He sighs, shaking his head, but his lips betray him; the lines of his mouth are soft. She’s smirking at him. She casts him one last look before heading to the other customers.

“It’s nice to have new blood,” she calls over her shoulder, and it’s the most he could’ve asked for.

–

(He stays as long as he possibly can without verging on inappropriate. He orders two more coffees and writes ten pages. She gives him a third on the house. They discuss nothing of consequence. Her favourite colours are red and blue. It doesn’t surprise him. He likes his tea with three spoonfuls of sugar. She majored in English. She mostly reads during her free time. He enjoys architecture and manual labour. He’s stronger than he looks. She throws her head back when she laughs. He likes the curve of her neck.

As he’s finally packing up, she smacks him with a dishrag.

You better come back, she says.

Oh? He responds. Is my company that preferable?

She rolls her eyes. Not at all, she tells him, but you make the hours pass. You know what they say: time flies when you’re having fun.

Who are they? Who says that?

Shut up.)

–

He doesn’t know what other days she works, so he decides to wait a week and come again on Wednesday. He doesn’t get much writing done. He has nightmares and wakes up sweating and tries not to sit outside smoking six packs of cigarettes. The stars glitter like they’re beckoning him. The Big Dipper looks like a noose if he inclines his head at the right angle.

His phone buzzes once and once only. He doesn’t answer it. He pictures Clara’s phone, vibrating with fifty messages a day, and her poor ability responding. She probably types _u_ and _b_ and _c_ in place of the actual words. He can see it now. He closes his eyes and smiles quietly to himself, letting the cold night air make dry ice of his bones.

–

He arrives ridiculously early the next morning. It’s a habit a little more than hard to break. She’s barely opened up when he steps in, ducking his head bashfully.

“Hi,” he says, sounding like a child. Her eyes dart up from behind the counter, looking for the source of the noise. She’s obviously not expecting anyone so soon, but she relaxes when she sees it’s him.

“Good morning,” she greets cheerfully, beginning to pour coffee beans in the brewer, while another pot steams. He takes the same seat. She glances back at him. “You’re rather keen, aren’t you?”

He blushes, scratching his neck. “Erm, early riser,” he says by way of an explanation. “Figured I could use a nice cup of coffee.”

She’s silent for a minute. It makes him oddly self-conscious.

“How awkward,” she finally says. “I didn’t actually want you to come back. It’s just something I say, you know, to customers, out of politeness—”

He’s momentarily mortified until he realizes her shoulders are shaking. She’s trying to contain her laughter. He scowls. “You think you’re funny, do you?”

“Pretty funny, yeah. Did I have you going?” She catches sight of his face. “Oh, I _did,_ didn’t I?” She sounds delighted. He furrows his eyebrows.

“Maybe I should take my business elsewhere, then,” he says convincingly, placing his feet flat against the floor. “Since I’m so unappreciated here.” He makes a motion to stand, his back to her.

She knocks over a jar of ginger tea leaves in her haste to stop him. “Wait, I didn't—”

He moves to face her. He’s smirking. She frowns, blowing a loose strand of hair away from her face. “Wow. Clever.”

“I thought it was quite good.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m in hysterics.”

They share an equally stubborn smile, and he sits again, stretching out his legs. “So. Coffee?” He prompts. She shoots him a look.

“Let me guess. Black, like your soul?” She asks, shuffling through a cabinet.

“No. Black like your heart,” he corrects, opening his laptop. She grins, but, unlike every other time he’s made her smile, it seems unwilling: she’s attempting to hide her face behind her hair, loose and curling. He thinks she might like him more than she’s letting on, whereas he doesn’t even know how to hide the fact that he likes her. It’s the divide; a set of parallel lines and a middle ground. He’s not sure where either of them stand. From what he’s seen of her, she likes _everyone._

She brings him his coffee and a scone he didn’t ask for. His lips turn up. “You’re nicer than I’ve given you credit for.”

She takes the seat opposite him. “I’m a peach.”

He laughs outright. “Modest, too.”

“I don’t see the point in modesty. It’s good to be proud of what you do. Even if it’s something as simple as giving a man with no dress sense and lack of overall personality a free scone.”

He disregards the last part – he’s slowly getting a handle on her – but inspects himself. “Is this really that bad?”

She looks him up and down, leaning forward. “No, actually; a bit formal, but the look works on you. Minus the coat. The coat’s dreadful. And the bowtie—”

“Bowties are cool.”

She giggles, crossing her arms over the table. “Won’t touch the bowtie, then.”

“Still.” He runs a hand through his fringe, brushing it back from his eyes. She’s oddly enchanted by the motion: in spite of everything, he’s got _great_ hair. “You make me sound like – a charity case, or something.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have that sort of patience.” Her nails tap against the surface, one at a time. “Eat your scone.”

The casual way she’s speaking to him is comforting and warm. It makes him want to say words too big for either of them, like _stay_ and _home._ He feels like he’s known her longer than a week, but he’s not sure if it’s because of what he’s been through or if it’s the actual reality of the situation. “What are you, my mum?”

“God, I hope not,” she says, cringing.

He breaks off a piece. It’s blueberry. “Here, have some,” he says, pushing the plate towards her.

She shakes her head. “No, don’t worry about it. That’s for you.”

“Well, get yourself one, then. Don’t make me eat breakfast alone.”

She lifts an eyebrow carefully. “Fine, but you’re paying for it.”

He’ll give her that one. “I’ll pay for both of them,” he says, being sincere.

She doesn’t take the bait. “That’s a little too date-ish,” she answers, standing nonetheless to get herself a muffin. “Take me to dinner first, then we’ll talk about breakfast.”

He laughs; there’s just a certain amount of absurdity in her comebacks that he can’t not. “You want me to take you to dinner before I buy you breakfast?”

She gives him a confused expression, peeking back over the jar of pastries. “Yeah, isn’t that how it works? Unless you’re the type of guy who doesn’t invite a girl to stay over until the fifth date.”

He’s pretty sure someone’s lit the back of his neck on fire. “Are you—I mean, I don’t think that's—I, erm, I—what do you—”

She cocks her head, ignoring his stammering, studying him. “Hm. I don’t think I’d wait that long, honestly. Not worth it.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this flustered in his life.

And—

She's—

She’s putting him on; he exhales, rubbing his hands against his face, while she doubles over, laughing harder than he’s ever seen her. Her forehead rests against the arm she’s got draped over the counter, her other arm held across her stomach. By the time she straightens up, he’s glaring at her.

“I swear,” she says, looking at him with near-tears in her eyes, “the best day of my life was when you decided to walk into this cafe.”

She doesn’t mean it literally, but she has no idea how right she is.

–

The cafe gets busier, after that, but she makes time for him when she can, more so than the other customers: it’s flattering, considering she’s known some of them for much longer than she’s known him. She slips him tea later in the afternoon, three scoops of sugar. He writes thirteen pages. She glances curiously at his laptop but doesn’t ask.

“You’re going to go bankrupt,” he tells her when she tries to pass him a sandwich, “giving me all of this for free.”

She looks at him, baffled. “What? No, I’ve just been adding it all to your tab. You’re at about twenty pounds.”

“Shut up.” He’s getting better at this. She grins.

“Just eat it,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’ve been here all day and all you’ve had is a scone. I don’t want you starving to death in my cafe. It’s bad for business.”

He laughs, both hands sweeping his hair back. He stares at her for a moment with a smile on his face. Her lungs forget their purpose. There’s something small, but heavy, about to drop from his mouth.

“You know,” he says, against his better judgment, “you know, I haven’t been this happy in a long time.”

 _Oh._ It _hurts_ , for some reason, and she doesn’t know why; maybe it’s the simplicity, the candidness, the _depth_ of his statement. All she knows is that there are things hidden within him, seemingly boundless, that she might never get the chance to know regardless of how hard she tries.

Looking at him smile, she doesn’t think it matters. She doesn’t want to stop trying.

–

On Sunday night, he wakes up with tear tracks on his face and reaches immediately for his phone. It rings in his ear, great, shattering alarms that crack his skull. He sits up, the screen pressed against the side of his face, his head hung low.

_We’re sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected._

He hangs up.

Yeah.

He didn’t really expect anything else, anyway.

–

She already has his coffee brewed for him when he walks inside on Wednesday. She’s in a particularly good mood.

“So,” she starts, cheerfully, “it’s been a few weeks. Plenty far into acquaintanceship to learn each others’ names.”

“I know yours,” he points out. “It’s on your name tag.”

She frowns jokingly, waving a rag at him. “I was dropping a hint,” she tells him. “I think they call it being smooth.”

“Who are _they?_ ”

She rolls her eyes. “Shut up. Tell me your name.”

He’s avoided it as long as possible. He’s dreaded this moment. But he can't—

“No name,” he hums nonchalantly. “Just the Doctor.”

She stares him down for a moment. He’s being serious. Her smiles fades into a look of disappointed incredibility.

“That’s a shame,” she says, going back to wiping off his table with the dishrag. “And here I finally thought I’d met someone who wasn’t mental.”

He chokes on his coffee. “Sorry?”

“Someone who introduces himself as the Doctor?” She starts, an eyebrow raised. “No name, just 'The Doctor’? You must be joking.”

He feels the blood pounding against the skin of his cheeks. His tongue falls down his throat. “That’s – that’s not what I—I mean, I'm—”

Her arms are crossed. She’s expecting something from him. He can’t seem to get the words from his brain to his mouth.

She sighs. “Such a shame,” she repeats. “For someone so cute to be so mad.”

“I’m _not_ mad,” he finally shoots back, clenching his jaw. He blinks. “You think I’m cute?”

“Thought,” she corrects. “Thought you were cute. Until you turned out to be a nutter.”

“Listen here,” he tries to say aggressively. Her shoulders shake for a moment and she hunches before straightening up, biting her lip. He’s sure she’s hiding a fit of laughter. His lips press into a thin line. “I’m not – mental,” he says. “I have a name. I don’t like using it.”

She leans the hand clutching the rag on the table. She’s humouring him, possibly. “Why?”

His emotions drain out of his body. He lowers his head slightly and looks away from her eyes. His fist relaxes. “Never mind,” he says, tiredly. He doesn’t know why he even bothers. “Forget it. You’re right. I’m mad.”

The air shifts subtly, like it’s been moved just an inch to the left. Her intestines twist together in her stomach. The fact that she’s obviously hurt his feelings weighs on her. She hesitates, before dropping warily into the chair next to him.

“Hey,” she begins, putting her arms on the table. Their elbows touch. She laces her own fingers together nervously. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t want to get into it. “It’s alright.”

“No, really,” she says. “I don’t know you that well. I shouldn’t have – laughed. I just thought it was a _thing –_ you know, most guys have a _thing_ they do, a _thing_ that gets women falling all over them—”

He almost smiles. “You didn’t know any better,” he says, dismissing her apology, but doesn’t continue.

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, studying his profile. He looks weary, beaten down, exhausted – the boyishness has melted from his features. His face is too rough, all jagged lines and hard edges. She’s never seen such an abrupt change in a human being before. It makes her heart feel like it’s being swallowed by the rest of her body.

“I’d like to know,” she says, almost forcefully, honestly. “Doctor. Why?”

He inclines his head. She’s staring at him, determined. He brushes his hair away from his forehead. She catches sight of a long, straight scar down the middle of his skull.

“I was a doctor,” he says slowly, “for the military.”

 _Oh._ “Oh.” She doesn’t quite know how to react. That’s definitely nothing close to what she expected – it wasn’t even on her list.

“I had a name.” His voice is low and dark, like the night and its stars wrapped up into a sound. “But the things I – the things I saw,” he says. “The things I did. The things I lost.” He rubs a hand over his eyes. “I don’t want that name anymore. I don’t want to be – _that man_.”

She wants to touch him, to put an arm around him, to hold her palm against his own, but there’s a time and place for everything except during a true war story.

“Who do you want to be?” She asks. There is nothing she can do about his past, but she can let him be the man he wants to be in front of her.

“I can’t forget,” he says. “It would be an insult. To – to so many memories. So I kept the only part of me that has ever done any good.”

And everything about him suddenly makes _sense,_ to her, in a way; like she’ll never need to know anything else about him again. Like she _understands_ him so intensely she could be living in the neurons of his brain. Lights fire in front of her eyes.

“Doctor,” she finishes. “Doctor.”

Now is when she touches him: she stands, reaching for his coffee cup; her fingers skim the back of his hand lightly, purposefully, and his gaze darts to hers.

“I’ll bring you another,” she says, unprompted. She gravitates toward their usual banter. “Black, like your soul.”

His mouth musters a half-grin. “Black like your heart,” he quips back.

“Well,” she says, turning away, smirking, “we’re perfect for each other, then, aren’t we?”

And he doesn’t have a retort for that one, but somewhere, it feels like an acceptance.

–

(You know, she says as he’s packing up to leave, I don’t just work on Wednesdays.

He straightens up, looking at her cautiously. The subtlety in her sentence is enough to paint a picture, but he never quite knows, with her.

He shifts uncomfortably, in case he’s wrong. I could – come another day? He tries, and her smile grows. What days are you here?

All of them, she says, winking. We live above the shop.

We—?

Come on a Saturday. You’ll see.)

–

He spends the next few days praying she doesn’t live with – or even have – a boyfriend. The idea preoccupies his mind. His nightmares don’t waver. His phone buzzes three times on Friday. He refuses to even read the messages. He knows what they say.

He barely sleeps at all that night, anxious and restless, ghosts weaving in and out of his head. He listens to NPR for an hour before switching to a voice recording of a NASA report on the Hubble telescope, attempting to calm his nerves. It works just long enough for him to be up at five. He goes jogging. The sky is clear, the air crisp. He decides to forgo his coat today, when he arrives back at his flat, and rolls up his sleeves.

He’s there by eight, only – she’s not.

She’s not behind the counter. Instead, there’s an older black man, along with a younger girl and a boy who look like they could be his children. The girl’s arranging muffins and the boy’s sitting at the counter. They all glance up, surprised at having company. He’s momentarily disarmed.

“Erm,” he says brilliantly, staring at them like they’ve just caught him doing something illegal. “Hello.”

The boy waves. The girl gives him a look that suggests she thinks there’s something wrong with his brain. “Hi?” She responds, obviously bewildered.

“Is, erm – is Clara in today?” He asks, and feels the blood rushing to his face. The three of them gain sudden expressions of comprehension.

“Ooh,” the boy says, and then angles his body toward the back of the cafe. “Clara, your boyfriend’s here!”

He opens his mouth blankly at the title. His gaze darts between them, baffled and embarrassed. His fingers are clenching and unclenching spasmodically.

The girl checks him out, running her eyes up and down. “Yeah,” she’s saying, “he’s exactly how she described him. I don’t know how we didn’t see it.”

The boy chimes in. “He’s not wearing the coat.”

“Oh, right.”

“Children,” the man says, “you’re making our guest uncomfortable.” He throws the Doctor a grin. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Clara!” The boy calls again, and he hears footsteps as she stumbles into view.

“Ouch, sorry – boxes everywhere – what is it?” She says breathlessly, fixing her shoe. She hasn’t seen him yet.

“Your boyfriend’s here,” the boy repeats, pointing. She looks up.

“Oh, _right,_ ” she replies, mouthing 'sorry’ at him. “He’s also a _customer,_ so I’m hoping you remembered your manners, Angie, Artie.”

“Angie didn’t.”

“Shut up.”

“Doctor,” Clara interrupts the banter, “feel free to take your usual seat. We’ll have your coffee ready in a minute.”

He sits, still slightly alarmed by the amount of activity going on. She moves across the room to join him, sitting opposite.

She leans forward. “Sorry,” she says in a hushed voice. “I must talk about you more than I think I do. They won’t stop teasing me.”

He smiles. “I don’t – erm, I don’t mind it.”

She smirks. “Yeah, you wouldn’t. Your crush on me is glaringly obvious.”

He decides he’s not going to fall for it. “And yours isn’t?”

“Never said that.”

Well, it’s her game; he shouldn’t be surprised that she’s better at it than he is. He blushes and doesn’t reply. She raises an eyebrow.

Artie brings over his coffee, setting it in front of him. “Tea, Clara?”

“Why thank you, Artie,” she replies. “I’d love some.”

“English Breakfast or Jasmine?”

“Jasmine.”

When he walks away, the Doctor shifts forward. “You’re – adopted?” He guesses, and she laughs.

“Not quite,” she responds. “Family friend who came to stay and never left. It was supposed to be a week, and in that time, Mrs. Maitland died – their mother – I didn’t have it in me to leave, after that.”

“Ah,” he says, because the effects of death are something he understands a little too well. “Yes. So, your parents…?”

“Mum died when I was a teenager,” she says, very matter-of-fact. He can imagine it’s an emotion she’s not ready to show him. “Dad’s fine, though, aside from threatening to move to Holland every few months. Hates the government.”

“Sounds like a good man.” He pauses as Artie hands Clara her tea, and then pretends to find Mr. Maitland cleaning the counter extraordinarily interesting. “No _actual_ boyfriend, then, I’m assuming?”

“No.” She puts her chin in her palm, studying him closely. She seems unsure of whether or not she wants to say whatever she’s thinking. Her lips part, breathing in. “And do you – have anyone? Or… _have_ you had anyone?”

She’s being as tactful as she can. He appreciates it, and as much as he doesn’t want to talk about it, it’s not fair for her to be unaware. “Twice,” he says. He clears his throat. “I was married.” Her elbow slips off the table. He ignores it; it’s probably a bit of a shock. “I studied medicine at university. Joined the military right after. There was a girl in my regiment – her name was Rose. We weren’t…together,” he finishes, cautiously, “but…we were—”

“You were in love,” Clara answers, filling in his story. She’s not bothered; she’s watching him with rapt attention. He clenches his jaw briefly.

“She died,” he explains bluntly. “I did everything I could, but I – couldn’t help her. She was brave. Brave until the very end. But they’re always brave.”

Clara’s quiet, looking at him.

He grins humourlessly, and then it fades. “It’s odd,” he continues, looking at her with something akin to wonder. “I haven’t – talked about this. With anyone, really.”

She hums. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to people who don’t know anything about you.”

He crosses his arms. The noise of the Maitlands going about their business in the background prevents him from slipping back into the battlefield. “That was two years,” he says. “Two years I spent with Rose. And then there was – Martha. She’s the only one who made it out. She married Rose’s college boyfriend – Mickey – who had joined at the same time as Rose.”

“Well, that’s – good,” she says, trying her best. “Do you still talk to her?”

He thinks of his phone with the twenty-seven missed calls and thirty unread text messages. “Sometimes,” he says, and clears his throat. “Donna was my superior. My friend. There’d been a – civilian resistance, and she had to give the orders for the bombing of the town. She’d already lost a lot of – a lot of her men. When they went to inspect the aftermath, they were ambushed.” His body language is rigid. She can see the veins tensing in his arms. “Suffered severe head trauma. Destroyed her long-term memory. Remembers nothing of her time in the army.”

“Wow.” She has nothing to say. War stories aren’t meant to be heard, they’re meant to be felt. She thinks it’s easier for him to keep going without her interruptions.

He waves her off. “Sometimes I think it’s better,” he says. “Many go mad, in the end. It’s not uncommon. Sometimes I wish I didn’t remember.”

Her tea’s gone cold. She’s completely forgotten about it, absorbed in his life. “You said there were two,” she prompts. He’s so close to some kind of release; she can sense it.

He smiles. It’s a real smile; delicate and sad and lonely. He puts his elbow on the table, leaning his jaw against the back of his hand. It’s taking him a moment. “Amy, Rory, and – River,” he says at last. “River Song.”

“Pretty name.”

“Beautiful woman,” he adds. “The four of us were best friends. And River was – a powerful force, there’s no other way to describe her. Strong, unwavering, clever, loyal – unafraid. She wasn’t afraid of death. She could make her enemies beg for mercy. There was nobody like her. We were – married, very impromptu, on the field – quick, combat marriage. And she died. She died saving my life. Rory and Amy were both killed in an explosion a few months later. And my time was up.”

How one person could experience all that loss without losing their mind, she doesn’t know; but she’s suddenly amazed that he’s sitting here in front of here at all.

In a moment of spontaneity, she shifts and places her hand on top of his own, tiny fingers curling around his.

“I won’t pretend to understand,” she says, and gratitude floods his veins, “but I’m glad you’re alive. And I’m glad you’re here. And I’m sorry you had to suffer that much alone.”

It’s the closest he’ll ever come to being forgiven.

–

(It’s funny, he says later. I feel like I’ve known you forever. From the minute we met, you seemed – familiar, in a way. Maybe it’s just me—

Her lips curl. She shrugs her shoulders. Who knows, she says. Maybe we do know each other. In another time, or place. Another dimension. She pauses, and then: It wasn’t just you.)

–

He starts coming more frequently; every other day he’s in the cafe with his laptop, spending whatever time with Clara he can. The Maitlands have all grown used to having him around, to the point where they’ll have him run errands once in awhile, move boxes, take inventory; he’s watched Angie and Artie more than a few times when Clara was busy and Mr. Maitland wasn’t home. He writes and writes and writes.

It’s a quiet Monday when she rests against the arm of his chair, one hand steadying herself on his shoulder. “What are you writing, anyway?”

He grins, enjoying her weight. He could probably do push-ups with her sitting on his back. “Don’t laugh,” he warns in advance. He’s stopped trying to hide anything from her. “I wanted to – immortalize them, some way. Their memories. But in a…magical sense. A fantasy. Sort of like a fairytale.”

“That’s not something to laugh at,” she admonishes, “that’s honourable. Have a little more faith in me. What’s it about?”

He rubs the back of his head, sheepish. “An alien who travels through space and time, saving the world with his friends. I mean, he’s a human-looking alien, and he has companions, and they have adventures – his spaceship looks like a 1950’s police box, and it’s called the Tardis, Artie came up with that; it stands for Time and Relative Dimension in Space—”

He’s animated. It makes her smile. “I like the idea,” she says, her fingers absentmindedly tracing his shoulder blade. She’s become accustomed to touching him. “It’s original. It’s fun. And you’re the main character, I’m assuming?”

“Well, yes, but I don’t know what to name him.”

She chews on the inside of her lip thoughtfully. “Why not just call him the Doctor?”

He looks at her. “Really? D'you think?”

She nods affirmatively. “Why not? It’s mysterious, adds to the fantastical element. _The Doctor._ It’s – I don’t know, alluring.”

He slips an arm around her waist. “And you’re sure you’re not a little – biased?” He asks, dropping his voice an octave. He’s spending too much time around her. “Clara?”

She dips her head, a small, playful smile making a puppet of her lips. His eyes dart to her mouth. She leans in, and then—

She shoves her whole hand in front of his face. “Nice try.”

“Ouch,” he says, dazed.

She’s laughing. “Maybe next time. If you write me into your story.” She seems to reevaluate her statement. “And I mean properly write me in, not just as some girl you lure into your snogbox and fly away with.”

“You’re already in it.” He doesn’t tell her with any sort of ulterior motive in mind. He tells her because it’s the truth.

This forces her to pause. “I am?” She asks. Her fingers curl around his shoulder.

It’s been awhile. He’s not embarrassed of how she makes him feel anymore. “Of course. You’re the one who rescues him. His entire past, present, and future are being destroyed, and you’re the one who steps in and saves it all.”

Her voice is caught in her throat. It scratches against the roof of her mouth. “She sounds important, this character.”

“She is.”

Her palm is suddenly against the side of his face, tilting his head until he can meet her eyes, and then she’s bending down and she’s not stopping herself—

She kisses him then, carefully and slowly, once and once only. His lips aren’t too hurried, and his skin is clean-shaven, smooth. She’s surprised at the softness of him. She always thinks he should be more ragged and rough than he really is.

He’s wary about his hands. He doesn’t clutch her too tight. He’s afraid she’ll disappear the harder he holds on.

She pulls back, and the smile on her face is unlike anything he’s ever seen. Her fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. She slides off the chair, standing up.

“That’s all for now,” she says, and flashes him a smirk. “I’ve been told it’s unprofessional to snog your boyfriend on the clock.”

He wants to say she’ll be the death of him, but there are some days he feels like she’s the only reason he’s alive, and so he doesn’t.

–

(She throws a croissant at his head during closing. Hey, she says, don’t tell me you’re the snog-'em-and-leave-'em type.

He actually snorts. No, he says, but you make me _wish_ I was.

This time it’s a bagel. It bounces off his chest.

Nice. Very mature.

Shut up, she says. Give me your mobile number. I’m tired of this shop. Take me on a _real_ date. Take me to Paris, or something. I’ve always wanted to travel.

His eyebrows raise. Well, she’s never been one to beat around the bush.

Is that an order?

I was gonna go with _demand,_ but that works, too.

Yes, dear.)

–

It’s been a week since he’s sort-of taught her how to use her own phone. He almost regrets it. She keeps texting him pictures of smiley faces instead of just typing them – she’s somehow managed to figure out how to save photos from Google Images, but can’t find the symbol button. There are things about her he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand.

But it comes in handy Thursday night, when he shoots awake on the verge of vomiting, drenched in a cold sweat, shaking uncontrollably. He reaches for his phone, but instead of dialing the usual numbers, he dials—

“ _Hello? Doctor? It’s three in the morning, what’s wrong?_ ”

His voice sounds like he’s rubbing it against grindstone. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry – can you come over, please?”

There’s a rustling noise, like she’s shifting the covers as she gets out of bed. “ _What’s your address?_ ” She asks. “ _Oh, hang on, it’s in my phone, isn’t it—how do I get to 'notes’?_ ”

He almost laughs, but he feels so sick he can’t manage it. “Homescreen,” he says. “I’m around the corner. Flat five. Bell code 91011.”

“Right,” she responds. He catches her worried undertone. “I’ll be there soon.” She hangs up.

He gets up and unlocks his door, but it’s all he can do before his legs tremble so badly he’s afraid she’ll find him lying collapsed on the floor. He gets back into bed, sitting up, head against his knees

She’s at his door in about five minutes, knocking incessantly. He thinks he scared her more than she let on. He can’t even call out. His mouth feels like it’s full of sand. His body becomes acres and acres of desert.

She finally opens the door, and her breath is caught in a snare in her throat. She rushes over to him.

“Doctor,” she says, over and over, “what’s wrong? What’s the matter?” She places a hand underneath his jaw, angling his head. Her fingers sweep through his hair and press against his forehead, and then down to his shirt. “God,” she exhales, anxiety writhing in her chest. “Come on. Arms up. You’re drenched, you’ve got to take this off.”

He complies with her the best he can, but his brain is pounding so hard against the inside of his skull he can almost feel it rupturing. Her thumbs are brushing the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying.

She sits on her knees, wrapping her arms around him, enveloping him. She doesn’t seem to know what else to do. “Shh,” she murmurs, and her lips press against his scar. “Shh.”

She never says _it’s okay._ He thinks he appreciates that more than anything else.

After a few minutes, she lowers herself slightly. His head is against her shoulder, tucked into her neck.

“Doctor?” She whispers, nudging him. He finally meets her eyes. He thinks his look dead. She shivers, and scoots off the bed.

She turns the light on in his bathroom, and a moment later the water in his shower is running. She comes back to him.

“Can you stand?” She asks, her hand hovering underneath his elbow.

He plants his feet on the floor, carefully raising himself up. He shuffles toward the bathroom, using the wall for support. He still hasn’t said anything to her. The door closes behind him.

The water is ice-cold; it shocks his senses awake, his skin burning like he’s under a hot flame rather than a freezing stream. He shakes his head, clearing it of spirits and poltergeists and everything that refuses to let him forget.

When he steps out, flannel bottoms and no shirt, she’s putting new pillowcases on his pillows. The sheets are changed. There’s a glass of water sitting on his nightstand. He stands, take aback, unused to this kind of care from anyone.

She looks uncertainly at him. “The sheets were – I mean, you – couldn’t sleep on those. I hope it’s okay.”

He wraps his arms around her. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his eyes stinging. “Thank you.”

–

She doesn’t go home after that. She lies in bed with him, his body stretched across hers. Her nails rake over his back comfortingly. She’s humming gently. The only thing running through his mind is about how her voice vibrating through her chest would be enough to lull him to sleep for the rest of his life.

A thought strikes him. He pushes himself onto his elbows. Her gaze is questioning.

“I need you to know something,” he starts seriously, meeting her eyes. “I like you. I do. Probably more than I should.” She stops breathing. “But I know that you’re _you._ I don’t look at you and see a ghost, and I don’t – expect you to replace one. It’s not a competition. It’s just you, Clara. Only you.”

She looks like she doesn’t remember how to use the English language. She swallows once, twice, lips parted.

“Okay,” she manages to get out. Her hair is a brilliant mess of chestnut against the stark whiteness of his sheets. He brings his head forward and kisses her, and that’s all. Her palms cup the sides of his face. It’s the most either of them have to offer.

–

(I’m sorry, he apologizes again in the morning. I know you wanted a real date, and well, that wasn’t exactly—

She puts a finger over his lips. It’s okay, she says. This was – the beginning was scary. But the rest of it was nice.

She’s thoughtlessly sorting through his mail on his kitchen counter. He doesn’t mind. It’s been long enough. But he’s not sure she actually realizes what she’s doing, until—

She snaps her eyelids shut. Oh my God, she says, sounding horrified. I swear I didn’t see anything, I don’t know your name—

He holds back a laugh. It’s okay, Clara, he says. I think you’ve earned the right. I don’t mind.

She peeks through one eye.

Oh, she says, smiling. So that’s who.)

–

“What do you dream about?” She asks at the cafe, putting sugar in his coffee. She hesitates. “Do you dream about them – dying?”

He smiles hollowly. It makes him look ancient. Not in his face, but in his eyes.

“No,” he answers, his voice rough and callous. “What I dream about is worse.”

“Worse than death?”

His mouth is still twisted bitterly. “I dream that they’re alive.”

Oh, _fuck._

She’s too horror-struck to speak. Of course. Of course he dreams about them breathing and laughing and – living. That’s the only thing that would make the truth even more unbearable than it already is.

He doesn’t notice. There are ghosts on his eyelids, now. “It’s horrible,” he says. “Unimaginable. I wake up and have to remind myself they’re dead. I call their numbers. I listen to the automated reply for disconnected lines.”

There’s nothing she can say to that, and so she doesn’t say anything.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he says, defeat riding on the underside of his tone. “I can’t.”

She skims her fingers across his face, running a thumb over his eyebrow.

“Did you have nightmares last night?” She says, offering everything she has for him. “After I was there?”

He hesitates. “No. No, I didn’t.”

“Well—”

“I’m not letting you sacrifice your life for me,” he tells her, and he won’t fight it. “I won’t let you – adjust to my needs, just because I can’t get through a night of sleep. I can’t put that pressure on you.”

She’s not arguing with him. She knows what he’s trying to do; she knows what he means. “Well,” she says again, “call me when you need me. When you have nights like – like last night. When it becomes unbearable to be alone. I want to be there.”

He takes her hand in his, pressing his lips to her lifeline.

“Time will pass,” she says with finality. “Time will pass, and somehow, things will get easier.”

There’s a determination in her stare. This piece of advice, he realizes, is something she might be saying from experience.

He decides to wait for time to pass.

–

She’s right.

She’s right, miraculously; her presence in his life takes up more and more space in his mind. She becomes a sort of mental block to his nightmares, to the trauma. He dreams less about girls pushing their hair behind their ears or the way their laughter sounds during a game of darts or the bloodstains they left on his hands and on his clothes, and starts dreaming nonsensically: a room full of fish, an upside-down sky, Clara’s smile reflecting the surface of the moon.

He’s watching her watch the sun set on the balcony of his flat when it happens: an overwhelming love for her overtakes him. Her hair is whipping in the wind. Jupiter and its moons are orbiting her irises. He’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

She catches him staring at her, and smiles self-consciously. “What?” She asks, exhaling in a laugh. “What is it?”

He brings one hand to the back of her head, knotting his fingers in her hair, and the knuckles on his other hand meld into her jaw. He bows his head, her eyelashes flickering against his. She stands on tip-toe to meet his mouth, tasting like dry, white wine and apricots. Her arms wrap around his waist.

“Come away with me,” he whispers against her mouth, breathless. “You want to see the world. I need to see more of it; better parts of it. Please, Clara. Come away with me. Not now, maybe. Not near, not far. But someday.”

It’s the best he can do: it’s real, desperate, consuming. She makes the universe breathable.

“Why?” She murmurs, fingers clutched around the fabric of his shirt. “Why me?”

He’s silent for a moment.

“Because,” he says at last, quietly, “because in spite of everything, you make me glad that I’m alive. I think that’s all that’s worth anything, really.”

She presses her lips against his one more time, her palms on his cheeks, fingers splayed. He’s not foolish enough to take it for an answer.

She pulls away. “Ask me tomorrow,” she says cheekily.

It’s not a strange request, coming from her. She’s never been predictable. Still – he has to know. “Why?”

“Because.” She smiles teasingly, her nose brushing his. “Because tomorrow, I might say yes.”

She’s giving him something that’s been denied to him for years – she’s promising him tomorrow.

He thinks of Rose, sunlight casting a halo against her hair; Martha, the leaves of a rare tree breaking shadows across her face; and Donna, polishing her boots, bare feet hanging over the edge of a cliff. He thinks of Amy and Rory and River, and the way the midnight sky made them into stars, blinding him. And he thinks of Clara: Clara, with her kindness and her determination, letting the setting sun ignite hope within his bloodstream. He thinks of them all and the tomorrows he couldn’t give them.

He thinks of tomorrow, and he knows: tomorrow is something he’ll remember.


End file.
